Smith scanned the columns. "Standard-data processing and Net-access programs. I do not recognize these columns."
"These are the names of the books of the Koran," said Chiun.
Smith pulled up a file at random.
"Yes, the Koran," Chiun said. "These are verses. And this portion is a list of the ninety-nine names of God."
"'God the Avenger'?" said Remo, reading one aloud.
Smith closed down the file. He tried others. They were books of the Koran, as well.
Frowning, Smith leaned back in his chair. "It appears to be empty of useful information."
"What I want to know is what's the secret word?" asked Remo.
Smith appeared to be intrigued by the same question. Inputting the word in a fresh file, he accessed his conversion program.
"'Open sesame,'" said Smith. "Very clever, Master Chiun."
Chiun beamed at Remo as if to say I am smarter than you.
"You wish," Remo whispered back.
Abruptly Smith said, "Perhaps there are files stored on Ladeen's e-mail server."
Smith brought up the Net-connection program and waited for the system to dial in. It took only forty-five seconds, and the speedy right-to-left cursor traced a skyline out of The Arabian Nights, complete with lofty minarets.
A flowing legend read Welcome To The Gates Of Paradise.
Once again Smith was confronted by a password prompt.
"'Iftah ya simsim' has worked so far," suggested Remo.
Smith input the phrase, hitting Enter. He got a "login incorrect" message.
"We are stymied," he said.
"That's your cue, Chiun," Remo suggested. The Master of Sinanju made a face.
"Try 'Aladdin,'" said Remo suddenly.
"That will never work."
"It can't hurt," said Smith, who typed the name "Aladdin" and hit Enter.
The system hesitated, the screen went blank and they held their breaths in unison.
Then an e-mail menu appeared.
"It worked," Smith said in surprise.
Behind his back, Remo stuck his tongue out at the Master of Sinanju, who looked away from the rude display in disgust.
Smith keyed his way through the corridors of the e-mail files, finally reaching a list of folders that included Saved Mail, Sent Mail and Messages. He placed the cursor on Messages and opened the electronic file folder.
The incoming messages were logged in numerical order by date, sender, user name and subject heading.
"Jihad Jones?" said Remo, reading a name at random.
"Obviously a pseudonym."
"No kidding," Remo commented. "Are you sure?" Other names were equally unlikely. There was an Ibrahim Lincoln, a Yassir Nossair, a Mohamet Ali, a Sid el-Cid, a Patrick O'Shaughnessy O'Mecca and others just as odd. Only one name seemed plausible at first glance. Remo pointed to it. "Try that guy. Yusef Gamal. He looks like he might be real."
"Pah!" said Chiun. "It is obviously false."
"What's phony about the name 'Yusef Gamal'?" asked Remo.
"That is for me to know and you to ponder, wild guesser."
"'Yusef' is the Arabic equivalent to the Christian 'Joseph,'" Smith explained. "The last name I confess strikes me as familiar, as if I have heard it before."
"The only thing it reminds me of is 'camel,'" said Remo.
Chiun became very still.
Remo and Smith hit it at the same time. Their eyes met and they said, "Joseph Camel?"
"Argh," said Chiun.
"Well, we know one thing," said Remo. "No terrorist with all his marbles is walking around the U.S. of A. calling himself Joe Camel."
"That would seem to be inescapable," Smith said unhappily.
"Yes, for once Remo is correct," Chiun chimed in. "There is no such person as Yusef Gamal."
Chapter 10
Al Ladeen cruised the streets of the capital of idolatry, New York, blending with the flow of traffic. Here, mixing with the other vehicles emblazoned with the fierce eagle of the United States Postal Service as they jockeyed to outperform their hated foes-the Federal Express, the UPS, Roadway, DHL, and others-he was all but invisible to searching police eyes.
The coils of black smoke that he had authored with his well-placed bombs were graying now. Soon they would be but sweet, acrid memories. The tumult that was to go down in the history of the world as the last works of the brave martyr, Allah Ladeen, was subsiding.
It was sad. But at least the dead were still dead. They would never stop being dead.
And now it was time to make more dead.
As he turned onto Fifth Avenue, and the tall gray teeth of the General Post Office came into view, Al Ladeen drew in his last breath of victory and wrapped about his lower face a green checkered kaffiyeh.